IN THE FLAT-WOODS. 13 



sort along the railroad, in the direction of 

 Palatka. There, on a Sunday morning, I 

 heard my first pine-wood sparrow. Time 

 and tune could hardly have been in truer 

 accord. The hour was of the quietest, the 

 strain was of the simplest, and the bird sang 

 as if he were dreaming. For a long time I 

 let him go on without attempting to make 

 certain who he was. He seemed to be rather 

 far off : if I waited his pleasure, he would 

 perhaps move toward me ; if I disturbed him, 

 he would probably become silent. So I sat 

 on the end of a sleeper and listened. It was 

 not great music. It made me think of the 

 swamp sparrow ; and the swamp sparrow is 

 far from being a great singer. A single pro- 

 longed, drawling note (in that respect un- 

 like the swamp sparrow, of course), followed 

 by a succession of softer and sweeter ones, 

 that was all, when I came to analyze it ; but 

 that is no fair description of what I heard. 

 The quality of the song is not there ; and it 

 was the quality, the feeling, the soul of it, 

 if I may say what I mean, that made it, in 

 the true sense of a much-abused word, 

 charming. 

 There could be little doubt that the bird was 



